


Into the Jaws of the Wolf

by American_Ghostwriter



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clan Lavellan aftermath, Dealing With Loss, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of sex trafficking, Minor Character Death, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Survivors, Trigger Warnings Posted before Chapters, Working through problems because that's how a functional relationship works, frequent mention of scars (not self-harm related), mentions of Tevinter slavery, mentions of queerphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 22:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13913796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/American_Ghostwriter/pseuds/American_Ghostwriter
Summary: Nightingale,Lady Guinevere was eliminated. The nobles of Wycome have mobilized their forces, convinced that their red lyrium sickness is actually some sort of elven curse. They have killed the elves of Wycome's alienage, and are marching upon the Dalish.I urge you to burn all contacts in Wycome.Jester





	1. The Blood of Home Near

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm not great about working on one project at a time. So here's another WIP about my newest obsession/muse. Big thanks to FenxShiral for their Project Elvhen. It's a gods-send.

It was raining yet again. Not even a light drizzle, but a steady downpour of fat rivulets that soaked through even the toughest leather to chill the skin. It darkened the sky deeper than the swirling grey clouds above, tinting the whole world into monochrome, and making the whole trip even more miserable. Naturally, Dorian hated it.

He had been riding for days, with the stern silence of Cassandra and the occasional uncomfortable discussion points from Cole. His hair and clothes alike were plastered to his skin. They hadn’t been given enough time for a proper meal since they left Skyhold two days prior. This, along with the fact that he could tell he had only been dragged along because their Inquisitor felt it was to bring along another mage, but had grown frustrated with Madame de Fer and developed a growing discomfort around Solas.

It certainly didn’t help that the Inquisitor’s mood was plummeting with every passing minute. Leliana’s spies had been adamant about the information that had started them on this mission in the first place, but the party had yet to find any trace of the handful of Dalish elves that amounted to the last of Clan Lavellan. Every now and then, Cole would open his mouth to speak the emotion of where they were, making Inquisitor Lavellan look up hopefully. Cole had yet to say anything fruitful, however, and it was beginning to put a strain on them.

“Perhaps it would be wise to reach out to one of Sister Leliana’s scouts,” Dorian announced, throwing caution to the wind in preference of some semblance of conversation. “If only to have at least one person skilled in tracking.”

The second he said it, Dorian realized he had made a mistake in calling out the foolishness of their party. The Inquisitor scowled at him, the twist of her features pulling the fluid blue lines of her _vallaslin_ into strange knots. It rather complemented the disgust she held for him, he thought sardonically.

“We have no way of doing that - which you’d be aware of if you thought for one second before opening your mouth,” she snapped. “And we have Cole.”

Cole, as if triggered by the Inquisitor mentioning him, spoke up, “Rage like fire. Not at a person, but at a people. ‘Your kind are all the same’. Wanting for someone better.”

Dorian gave a sigh, “I’m well aware, Cole, thank you.”

“I follow, but I can’t find. Not unless there is pain for me to heal.”

“There should be,” the Inquisitor said. “We just lost our clan, they’re traveling through unfamiliar land. We should be able to find them with Cole.”

Dorian bit his tongue to keep from arguing at how beneficial it would have been to have someone who could do a bit of scouting. Someone who could recognize tracks or whatever other things scouts look for. He supposed there weren’t too many people in the inner circle who would be able to help much more. One of the Chargers, he thought, might’ve said something about being a hunter…

“Guilt gnawing like mabari teeth. Need washing over it like a balm.‘There are children, but I have to.’ Hungry mouths at home. Hungry shame at hand.”

All three turned to look at Cole, various shades of alarm on all of their expressions. Still, Cole continued, his voice more pained this time.

“Cold, it’s so cold here. Blankets woven in pretty colors. Roaring fire smothered in the din of laughter. _Mi'nas'sal'in._ It hurts low and quiet like burning charcoal. Have to keep going. Have to find her.”

Everyone sat up a little straighter at that. The Inquisitor very nearly fell of her hart at the announcement.

“It’s them.”

“We do not know for-”

Cassandra didn’t have time to finish before Lavellan dug her heels into the beast and took off in the direction Cole was facing. Cassandra gave a frustrated sigh and motioned for everyone to follow her after their Inquisitor. Dorian watched as Cole vanished from sight, no doubt rematerializing much further ahead of them, using some spirit equivalent of fade step.

Whoever they were going to find ahead of them, they were definitely going to find a fight. The sounds of iron clashing was growing louder as they charged through the trees. Dorian ground his horse to a stop as he nearly trampled something small and humanoid.

Cassandra was off her horse, sword drawn and charging forward, the second he did. Dorian dismounted, growing nearer to the tiny figure now crouching at the base of a tree in fear. He was able to pick out more about them as he grew closer.

They were a slight, young thing. Too slim for a human. Tapered ears stuck out of their disheveled blonde hair. Their clothes were tattered, their skin covered in dirt, as if they hadn’t the opportunity to wash in a long time. If Dorian had to guess an age for them, he would have put them at around nine.

He knelt down, keeping a good distance away from the trembling child, and said, “Terribly sorry about that. Are you alright?”

The elf looked up, pale blue eyes widening in fear, and began to scream. The sound was high and sharp, tinged with a bloodcurdling fear that sent Dorian falling back. They curled up closer on themself as if trying to put as much distance between them and him.

Dorian muttered apologies, pulling away even as Cole appeared near the child, two more huddled close behind him. He left the spirit to comfort the child, instead pulling his staff from his back and rushing to join the fray ahead of him.

It was a small skirmish, a handful of Fereldan humans against what looked to be two Dalish. He tried to pick them out as he threw a barrier around his allies. He saw the woman first, her black hair cropped short against her head, a maul with a handle as long as she was tall in her hands. There was a feral snarl to her lips as she cleaved through the humans who had ambushed them.

Where the woman fell short, opening herself up to attacks with broad swings of her warhammer, there was the other elf. Dorian couldn’t get a good look at them from how quickly they moved. They were a dancing whirlwind of silver and shades of brown. Blood splattered out after each swipe of their blades like trails marking where they moved.

Dorian tore his eyes away from them, instead turning his attention to the Fade to shape it to his needs. He tugged at the particles he wanted, lining up a clear path to who he wished to hit, and extended his staff. Sparks of static arched across his fingertips as lightning sprang from the focus at the tip of his staff.

Between Cole, Cassandra, and the elves, it was an easy enough fight. As the last man fell, Dorian lowered his staff, only to find a knife at his throat. He turned slightly, just enough to see who had him at their mercy.

It was the other Dalish elf, now perfectly visible in his stillness. Dorian’s eyes trailed up the dagger, as long as his forearm and beautifully crafted with a elegant curve of the blade, up to eyes in a shade of green he had thought impossible. At this distance, Dorian could see they were more masculine. The elf was all graceful lines, a beautiful symphony of hard edges and soft curves. High cheekbones, defined jaw, full lashes, and auburn hair pulled back in intricate braids close against their head.  A golden tree was emblazoned across their face, the branches becoming a network of thorns as they spread across the elf's forehead and around their eyes, trunk extending across full lips to the roots that adorned their chin, interrupted only by a soft blue eyeshadow. Maker, they were pretty.

They cocked their head at him inquisitively, and he swore he could see recognition in their eyes.

“Elian,” the other Dalish called, voice rougher than he’d expected. “ _Dinal_!”

The rogue dropped his blade, sheathing it within his coat, and his lips pulled into a wickedly charming grin, “Dorian Pavus.  _Avanna_." There was a twitch at the corner of the elf's eye and his smile seemed to falter for a second, but then it was gone and he continued speaking. "I  didn’t expect to see you this far south.”

Dorian’s jaw fell at the words. He hadn’t expected a Dalish elf to know him, much less have a flawless Tevene accent.

“Do I know you?”

“You don’t recognize me.”

It wasn’t a question, but before he could answer it, the Inquisitor grabbed the man by the shoulder and turned him round. There was a look of disgust on her face as she looked at him.

“ _Fen’linast_ ,” she spat out the word like poison. “What are you doing here?”

“Lovely to see you, Tyla, as always.”

Their tone was surprisingly polite, if exhausted, despite her venomous acknowledgement. He wondered what they had done to earn such ire from her, and yet still offer her respect.

Of course, Dorian had long since learned it didn’t take much to earn Tyla’s unwavering hatred. Humans, templars, Circle supporters, Tevinter, blood mages, slavers, the list grew a little each day. It was equally easy for individuals to regain her trust, but not for the whole of their kind. Although he had to admit she was growing a little less hateful each day.

“What are you doing here?” she repeated.

The other Dalish, the swordswoman with the greatsword now strapped to her back, placed her hand gently on the Inquisitor’s shoulder. Her voice was deep and raspy and thick with her people’s accent when she spoke.

“He’s part of the reason we’re here, Tyla. Elian has done nothing but help us.”

Tyla looked even more affronted than before, “He has done so much more than help us.”

The Dalish - _Elian_ , Dorian repeated the name in his head - held up his hands in a surrendering manner, “If you want me to leave, I will.”

“Lea-”

“He stays,” the warrior snapped. “I owe him my life, Tyla. We all do.”

The warrior motioned towards where Dorian stood, and he jumped when he noticed Cole and the three children had at some point materialized next to him. Two cling to each of the spirit’s hands, the third had her arms wrapped around his shoulders and was hanging down his back like a cloak, but Cole didn’t seem to mind.

Tyla looked from Elian to the warrior and back, brown eyes filled with fire, “Fine.”

She gave a whistle and her hart trotted into the clearing. Wasting no time, she swung herself into the saddle and motioned to Cole, “I can take one on my saddle.”

Cassandra nodded, “One of the children can ride with me.”

Dorian felt discomfort creep in as the others looked to him. He remembered how the little girl had screamed at the sight of him, whether because he was human or Tevinter, he didn’t know. Would that change just because they now knew he was with the first of their clan?

As though noting his distress, Elian picked the girl off Cole’s shoulders, muttering soothingly in what sounded like elvhen. The girl looked up at Dorian and nodded her head hesitantly. With little warning, the elf dropped her down on the saddle directly in front of Dorian.

“She’ll be just fine with you now,” Elian said, winking. “I let her know Tevinter Alti don’t bite. Tell him your name, _da’lan.”_

It was strange to listen to him speak. His accent was the strangest mix of Dalish and Tevene

The little girl looked up at him, wide blue eyes filled with uncertainty this time. Her face, like the other children, was bare. He wondered briefly if there was any significance to the tattoos. In all the times Tyla had prodded him about Tevinter, he had never had the chance to ask her about her own culture.

“Nehvevaral.”

Maker, that sounded like a mouthful. It certainly was painfully Elvhen, and Dorian was certain he would butcher it.

“Lovely to make your acquaintance,” he said instead, throwing on his most charming smile. “I am Dorian Pavus, of Minrathous.”

She gave a little giggle, “You talk funny.”

Dorian tried not to feel offended at that, as though he alone was had an accent. She was, after all, only a child. Raised surrounded only by people who spoke like her. It was strange, now that he thought of it, that the majority of Dalish he’d met shared an accent.

Dorian wanted to ask for a proper introduction from Elian, who seemed to not only know of him, but spoke with such a familiarity that he was certain they had known him personally. But he was interrupted before he could as Cassandra asked her own question.

“Shall we rendezvous with a scout? Retrieve more horses for your clansmen, Inquisitor?”

“I do not know how to ride your horses, _shem,_ ” the elven woman said. “My feet will do me just fine.”

“I’m in the same bed as Rosal, I’m afraid,” Elian chimed in. “No need for more horses, just as quickly to Skyhold as possible.”

Cassandra exchanged a glance with Tyla, who simply nodded in agreement.

“Very well,” was all the Seeker said before turning her horse around and heading forward.

“Are you certain you-”

The question died on Dorian’s tongue as he turned to Elian, catching a glimpse as the elf scaled one of the trees and disappeared into the branches high above them. There was only the slightest flash of differently colored clothing as he leapt branch to branch after Cassandra.

A hand thumped his leg roughly and Dorian started a bit before looking down to see the elf woman, Rosal. Her golden eyes were alight with amusement as she spoke.

“He does that a lot. You get used to it.”

She didn’t give him time to respond as she set off in a jog after Cassandra and Tyla. Dorian looked to Cole as if the boy might give him answers to some unspoken questions.

“Elation and relief. The taste of elfroot on an empty stomach. _We don’t have to worry anymore_. Surrounded by other, but less alone now,” Cole announced. “There’s so much color! The sound of flutes, drums, voices echoing into the stars. Deft fingers crafting baskets and blankets. Warm stew boiled over bonfires. There’s sadness, but also...warmth in remembering. I think I’m going to like them.”

And then he was gone, no doubt materializing closer towards the beginning of their little entourage. Nehvevaral gave a soft giggle again and looked up at Dorian.

“He’s weird.”

“Yes, well,” he sighed, “Looks as though we both have some eccentricities to grow accustomed to.”

And he took off after the others, wondering silently what the rest of the inner circle would think of their newest companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did a slight alteration in this chapter to Elian's vallaslin. Instead of having Mythal's original complex design, it's a mix of Mythal that becomes similar to Elgar'nan's imagery across the cheekbones and forehead. It reflects him better now. The design is created by doodlewitch and can be found here : https://www.nexusmods.com/dragonageinquisition/mods/1939/


	2. Wintry Halls of Mountain Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, chapter 2. This one's much better since, this time, I had a phenomenal beta reader. (Is that still a term?) If you want the best editor who's not an asshole, hit up nonsensespeaksforwisdom on tumblr.
> 
> For those who were asking: the title comes from the Canticle of Shartan. The particular stanza has a lot of thematic importance to the story.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: moderate description of scars & brief mention of slavers/slavery

In the freezing air of the Frostbacks, it was honestly a miracle that Dorian found the courage to bathe as regularly as he liked. Were it not for the efforts of several mages and a handful of wealthy Orlesians all tired of being filthy, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity at all. The bathhouse had been a project of passions that had, for a handful of moons, brought the visitors of the Inquisition together despite their glaring distances. What had resulted was a lovely internal room with privacy-inspiring stained glass and waist-deep pools. Soaps, oils, and perfumes lined small tables about the room. In short, it was Dorian’s small paradise, particularly at late hours of the night when no one could be found within.

Placed so close to Dorian’s quarters, he was able to slip through the halls in little but his robe and the soaps he had specifically asked Josephine to import at great cost. He sighed contentedly as he pushed open the dark oaken doors. Much to his surprise, a substantial amount of light was already present in the room, where it was usually still dark when he arrived.

He couldn’t imagine a non-mage coming at this hour, when there were not the Orlesian servants to heat the water, scrub the tiled pools, and fill the baths. It was so much easier to simply manipulate the water’s temperature. Yet he didn’t feel any difference in the Fade around the room. He watched his steps, making certain to keep as silent as possible, as he made his way through the public baths and around the partitions of the more private ones. So far, the pools were all empty. But, as he went further into the room, he could hear the soft sound of water being disturbed. He found the visitor near the end of the room.

Candles flickered about the edges of the pool, warmly illuminating the lithe figure standing in the pool. He was facing away, his arms raised as he scrubbed something into a mass of dark hair, showing off a shocking amount of tattoos across relaxed muscles. What looked like a dark rope of ink wound about his left arm. Spirals and petals curved around a thigh and into the water where the image was disturbed beyond recognition. Most impressively were the thick dark lines that spiraled out and upward in an intricate pattern spanning along the spine. It was a bird, its tail feathers splayed at his lower back, its wings spread wide across his shoulders as it looked towards his neck.

It was a beautiful piece, only diminished by the fading ink. Fading ink which made visible a network of harsh scars that made Dorian’s stomach turn. As he looked closer, he noticed that more scars marred the man’s shoulders and arms. Old scars, and yet still thick and puckered, hinting at how deep the wounds had cut. Battle scars? There was something so odd about them.

The man came to a stop suddenly, fingers still entangled in his hair, “Enjoying the view?”

Dorian tried not to jump too obviously, “ _ Kaffas!” _

The man turned slowly, revealing tapered ears and a tattooed face. It was the Dalish elf from the Inquisitor’s clan.  _ Elian _ . Dorian hadn’t seen him too much in the few days it had been since the remnants of Clan Lavellan had settled into Skyhold. He supposed that had more to do with their placement in the barracks than any form of avoidance. Not that he was familiar enough with any of them to warrant avoidance.

“Forgive me,” he started. “I’m unused to people being here so late.”

Elian looked amused, as if he didn’t quite believe him, but simply said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Dorian shook his head, but didn’t say anything. He was too caught off guard as Elian turned to him fully, revealing more knotted scars across his chest. Without the tattoos to hide them, Dorian recognized them for what they were. They weren’t clean enough to be from battle or blade. These were the knotted, uneven scars from a slaver’s whip.

Elian waved to the rest of the bath, obviously ignoring Dorian’s staring, “Did you come here to bathe, or are you simply here to watch?”

Dorian sputtered at that. He probably shouldn’t join Elian in the only occupied bath in the entire room. But it would also seem strange if he refused, especially since the elf had to have gone to the trouble of heating the water himself. There was no feasible reason he should refuse. So he gave a shrug and dropped his robe onto one of the nearby tables.

It wasn't as warm as he had expected. In fact, it was practically ice. He hissed in discomfort, physically holding himself back from leaping out of the water, and looked at Elian in alarm. He was pressing his lips into a thin line, the corners twitching upward in a suppressed smirk. Damned elf had known the water was so unbearably cold and had still let Dorian freeze.

“If you wanted to be so cold, you could have taken a bath in the snow.”

He extended his hand into the water, swirling his fingers around, and reached out softly for the Fade. The temperature rose to a comfortable level and Dorian sank contentedly into the water.

“Found it untenable, did you?”

Dorian snorted, “That’s not the only word for it.”

Elian laughed at that, the sound deep in his throat and loud against the tiles, and Dorian had to suppress a shiver despite the warmth. He watched as the man finished with his hair, rinsing his hands of excess oils. It was much longer, Dorian realized, than he had originally thought when he had seen it plaited. It almost reached his thighs.

“What brings you to the bathhouse at this hour?” Elian asked, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “You're obviously not shy.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

His grin broke out into a full smile, an amused edge in his pretty green eyes, and the pronounced curve of his canines caught Dorian's attention.  _ Kaffas _ , how long had it been since he'd lain with anyone? Too long, judging by the way he couldn't seem to keep his imagination in check.

“I prefer the privacy,” Dorian answered. “Easier to relax when there aren't a dozen people staring at the evil Tevinter blood mage.”

“Andraste save them from the corrupting mages, the scheming Qunari, and the savage elves,” he chuckled.

“Not Andrastian, I take it?”

At this, Elian almost looked offended, “ _ Dinath’amal _ , no. I have no quarrel with Andraste, but her followers and their lack of historical awareness are not for me.”

“Do the Dalish have their own gods?”

At this, Elian’s eyes narrowed just the slightest, his expression now withdrawn. “Why so interested in the Dalish?”

Dorian gave a shrug, reaching for his soap, “I've only ever known one other Dalish, and our Inquisitor isn't particularly forthcoming. Perhaps I'd like to learn about the People.”

He wasn't sure he was using that term properly. Elian raised his eyebrows and he began to second-guess himself. Was it correct? Had he imagined reading somewhere that the Dalish called themselves the People? Was it actually offensive? Or just surprising from a human?

He began to compose himself again, preparing any number of distracting and clever quip. But, before he could open his mouth, Elian offered something between a shrug and a nod.

“We have our own gods,” he said. “They've never been much to my taste, either.”

Elian dipped his head beneath the water, ending the line of questioning fairly quickly. Fair enough, Dorian supposed. Hadn’t his father told him against using religion as small talk? That and many other interesting topics that Dorian had enjoyed scandalizing Minrathous high society with. He wet his hair, trying to shove the memory of his father away. Closing his eyes, he took in the scent of spiced fragrance in his hair oils. It had also been too long since he’d last washed it. When he opened his eyes, he noticed Elian staring at him.

He smirked, “Now who’s enjoying the view?”

“I won’t offend your intelligence by denying it,” he responded easily.

Maker’s breath, it was almost too easy. He had teasingly flirted with other men many times before, had even been flirted at in return, but never with this sort of audacious honesty to it. It was always a game, tongue-in-cheek. Never meant to be anything more than a moment’s entertainment. And yet Elian threw about the same comments paired with a glint in his eyes that promised a follow through if pursued. Did the Dalish have no sense of shame? Of propriety?

That couldn’t be right. Tyla had definitely shown herself to be a bit of a prude. The first time Dorian had so much as tossed a compliment her way, she had looked at him as if he had hidden something rotten within her food. He had since stopped bothering as he half-feared she would have him shipped back to Tevinter in a box if he didn’t desist.

At the very least, this was so much more fun.

“I am rather marvelous,” Dorian quipped. “What with my being so charming and well-dressed.”

Elian’s eyes roamed over him, causing Dorian to suddenly feel self-conscious. It wasn’t a particularly common emotion for him, physically anyway.

“I don’t know if I can properly judge the latter,” Elian sighed, the teasing glint in his eyes belying the disappointed expression he had adopted. “But I am aware of your finer qualities.”

That simply wasn’t fair. He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed, proud, or offended. He almost felt like all three as he watched the elf chuckle to himself over the reaction.  _ Bastard _ . But it was more fun than Dorian had had since Haven.

Not that he blamed everyone for being a bit morbid. Corypheus hadn’t been exactly good for morale, especially to himself. He had really hoped at least some of the rumors the rest of the world had about Tevinter were merely myths created to perpetuate their fears. It wasn’t pride-invoking to think they might have been right.

Dorian was jolted from his thoughts as Elian lifted himself from the water, stretching his arm high above his head. He watched silently, caught off guard as he fell back into the present.

“I hope you won’t mind if I excuse myself,” Elian said, “since you appear to be distracted.”

Having nothing better to respond with, he simply said, “Of course.”

Walking over to the table with Dorian’s robe, Elian pulled a shapeless pile of cloth from the wood and started to clothe himself. A loose shirt and a simple pair of black trousers, both hanging loosely on his frame. He turned one last time to face Dorian.

“Thank you for the conversation,” he said.

Another dozen teases came to mind, but instead Dorian replied, “Anytime.”


	3. Found Wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods, this chapter was a bitch and a half to write. But here it is. Thanks again to my wonderful beta nonsensespeaksforwisdom (currently nonsensespeaksforwisdom for the season).

    “Enough!”

    The sudden shout caused Dorian to jump, his quill sliding across the parchment and leaving an ink trail across half his words. He sighed, eyes turned towards the ceiling in a silent plea to the Maker, and he put his quill down. His letter to Maevaris would have to wait. There was no way he could write coherently with all this noise. He rolled up the parchment, stuffing it into one of the folds of his robes, and ignored the worried look Ser Morris shot him as he left. Weaselly little fellow was scared of everything, but would never say aloud that it was due to Dorian being a Tevinter mage. He was very nearly the only one.

    Dorian stepped out into the sunshine of the courtyard. It was warming, but not nearly warming enough. He took a deep breath and searched for the direction of the noise. As he drew closer, he was able to discern the nostalgic sounds of laughing children hard at play. He turned the corner to find three scrawny elven children weaving about the sparring dummies Cassandra liked to take her frustrations out on. Minding them was an exasperated elven warrior he slowly began to recognize. He tried to put name to face. Rosal, wasn’t it? 

    The children ran about the training ground, wooden swords raised high and swinging madly. They seemed to be in the middle of reenacting a grand adventure. At Rosal’s sudden approach, the taller of the boys brandished a wooden buckler and stabbed his sword towards her. His dark hair was pulled back from his eyes in a simple knot. He stared at her unflinchingly, despite the warrior’s intimidating gaze.

    “You cannot best us, giant!” he bellowed. “We’ve fought too long to let you get in our way!”

    The smaller boy, who had taken refuge behind his headstrong friend at the impending danger, peered nervously over the shield at Rosal, “Yeah! We’re not afraid of you.”

    Rosal approached them with short, concise steps. The shorter boy caught sight of the steely look in her eyes and let out a frightened squeak as he returned to the relative safety of his friend’s shield. 

A tiny blur lept from the base of one of the training dummies with a loud screech. All Dorian could see of the little girl was a huge mass of frizzy curls that threatened to engulf her diminutive frame. A pair of wooden daggers jutted out from too-long sleeves, and the child mimicked slicing them across Rosal’s ankles.

The young girl leapt away, attempting to escape, and promptly caught her foot on the leg of her trousers. Her face was overcome with surprised panic. She fumbled and fell sideways. A blur of movement was all Dorian could see as Rosal darted forward, quick as a serpent.

    Rosal lifted the little girl up, hand grasped firmly around the child’s ankle, until their eyes were at the same level, “How are you to learn the basics of combat if you insist on not listening?”

    Dorian snorted, “You’ll never teach them anything like that.”

    He approached them quickly, a slight tilt to his face as he tried to determine whether or not the girl was in danger of slipping from Rosal’s grasp and plummeting down to the cold dirt. His fingers twitched as he reigned in the need to reach out to right the poor child.

    The girl in Rosal’s grip looked towards him, red creeping across her cheeks and ears. He suddenly recognized the ashen hair and blue eyes. Her blush deepened when she saw him, but faded as she seemed to recognize him. She wriggled furiously in Rosal’s grasp and, when she couldn’t seem to break loose, she allowed herself to ragdoll. Directing an annoyed pout at Rosal, she then returned her attention to Dorian and waved furiously.

“Darien!!”

Dorian didn't bother to correct her mispronunciation, as he was likely going to do the same thing to her name.

“Hello, Nehva? May I call you that?”

The little girl wrinkled her nose, but then she nodded, “Fine.”

Rosal gently put Nehva back down with a heavy sigh before turning to him, “Pavus, yes? The Tevinter?”

He suppressed a grimace, “I’d prefer to be known as Dorian.”

“As you wish.” She gave a casual shrug, as though it didn’t matter one way or another what she called him.

He chuckled. Of all possible responses, it was hardly what he’d expected. There was something refreshing in the curt honesty she seemed inclined to. Most of the Inquisition commented on Tevinter with such malevolence. She said it like a statement of fact, rather than an accusation.

He turned his eyes back to Nehva as she rejoined her compatriots. Now that Rosal wasn’t paying them as much attention, they returned to their little adventure. “They’re a bit young for combat training, aren’t they?”

“You are aware of what happened to our Clan, yes?”

Dorian winced, “I have some idea.”

“And what would ‘some idea’ entail,” she said sharply. “I can hardly explain if I do not know where to begin.”

He winced. He shouldn't have expected any differently from her. After all, she was so averse to obfuscation in her own strange way of speaking. It only made sense that she expected those around her to answer just as frankly. 

“Tyla wasn’t keen on going into detail,” he acquiesced. “And Josephine hadn't been up to speaking on the subject. From what Leliana told me, the people of Wycome purged the elves nearest to them?”

It felt uncouth to talk about the situation with so little tact. He knew that most of Clan Lavellan was dead, or scattered to the winds at the very least, and these five were all that could be found of them. He knew that something had gone very wrong in Wycome and that the humans had marched upon the elves, both within the alienage and the Dalish camp. Why the humans had purged the elves was still a mystery to him. That little detail had not gotten out.

He remembered the day the letter had returned. Rumors had been flying around the Inquisition by nightfall. Josephine had taken charge of the mission in Wycome and the task of finding out why Duke Antoine seemed unsurprised by the attacks on the Inquisitor’s clan. But the day the letter had come back, the crashing and screaming from the council room had been heard all the way in the library. Tyla had a temper, after all, and that day had revealed that her grief only amplify her anger. 

Josephine had seemed much more solemn since the whole ordeal. Where once he had found an amiable conversational partner, someone to complain with about unfortunate aspects of Fereldan life, he found only distracted silence. He could often find his comments and jokes falling on deaf ears as she stared off into a distance. She’d take time to regret her decision and would eventually move on. He hoped.

Rosal pulled him from his thoughts as she said, “In my clan, there is a phrase left by the ancients. Nuva dirthalas. It is a lesson learned from a great change; one that must stay with you for the rest of your life. These children, they have no ghi’lan to guide them from this tragedy. I cannot teach them wisdoms that come from loss, but I can teach them how to stop their enemies from taking more. At least,” she looked at the children wearily, “I could if they would listen.”

Dorian looked at the children, too. Nehva and the scrawnier of the two boys were taking on the third together. The boy with the shield smiled as the small boy took a stab at him. He hooked the sword beneath his arm, grasping at the front of his tunic, and pantomimed a dramatic death.

They didn’t seem to be showing any sign of the ordeal they had been through. However, he remembered his own shadows, and gave them enough credit that they wouldn’t always show signs of such a trauma. And if they could have a moment to remember to be kids, all the better. Particularly now that they were to be surrounded by the political turmoil that the Inquisition and Tyla had entrenched themselves into.

“Let them play,” he said finally. “Training can wait. Let them be children today.”

Rosal snorted, “Says the Tevinter mage of wealth. They don’t have the luxury of wasting time. All Dalish learn to grow up early, it is what the world has offered us.”

Dorian huffed at the blow to his pride, annoyed that she seemed to think he had lived an easy life. As though he hadn’t dealt with his own problems. “Things are different here,” he muttered. The words came out harsher than he intended. He softened his tone. “They have a little more time now.”

“Perhaps,” she said, and then she smiled. “Alright. They can train another day. I think I’ll find you that day, and see what your better alternative to teaching is, Pavus.”

Dorian gave a short laugh, but before he could respond, the beginnings of a large crowd caught his eye. He glanced over, watching as a several dozen people made their way excitedly up the stairs and into the main hall of the keep. Small crowds of humans were beginning to form. They clustered together, chatting excitedly amongst themselves. For once, in the long time he had spent around both nationalities, it seemed Fereldans and Orlesians were both civil in their conversations on the stairs.

“What in Andraste’s name is going on?” he muttered.

As though in answer of his musing, Rosal marched up towards a masked nobleman on the fringes. Dorian winced as she grabbed the Orlesian man by the shoulder. No sense of tact in that one, a sentiment apparently mirrored in the expression of the nobleman. But fear of Rosal’s intimidating stature won out over the noble’s pride and Dorian knew she was about to get her answer.

“What is this commotion?” Rosal asked, nodding her head towards the crowd.

The man pulled himself from her grip and resituated his lapels, “Haven’t you heard? The Herald is sitting in judgement. Our Lady Inquisitor will pass holy verdict on the magister.”

Dorian’s eyes widened in realization and fear. Rosal turned to him, an eyebrow raised quizzically. She seemed to notice he understood more than she. She wanted an answer. He couldn’t find it in himself to more than whisper. “Alexius. Kaffas!”

He raced towards the crowds, shoving his shoulder into several people, trying to make any leeway. Propriety be damned. He would be at the front of the crowd to see what fate Tyla was about to bring down upon his former teacher’s head. And so he continued to push past the crowds of Orlesians, Fereldans, ambassadors, pilgrims, and Inquisition soldiers. Where he couldn’t move people aside, he ducked beneath wide-brimmed hats of nobles and around the bulky armor of ex-Templars. A handful of scouts, the sword and eye of the Inquisition carved into their armor, recognized him and moved aside as he passed. It still took longer than he wanted to get to the hall.

He could just barely see over the spiked armor pauldron and feathered hat of the couple in front of him. Stretching gave him enough height to glimpse the tattered remains of Alexius’ red hood as he was led in. His heart leapt in his chest; his throat felt too tight to breath. Even from this distance, he could see Tyla seated on the ornate throne. The spiked Inquisitor throne that had been commissioned was gone. A large, copper throne, sculpted to resemble a tree, sat in its place. Its low and wide seat stretched into branches that spread about her head like a halo.

Tyla looked every bit like a vengeful spirit of nature. Though no crown sat atop her head, she held her head high, her silvery grey hair framing her imperious features. He had never seen her without an expression of anger or distaste before. The unfamiliar countenance of serenity she wore complimented the snowdrop tattoo that wound across her face, which usually seemed out-of-place.

“You recall Gereon Alexius of Tevinter?” he heard Josephine say above the din of the hall.

The crowd converged again and Dorian swore as his view was obscured by a mix of hats, hair, and feathered masks. He tried to shove through again, forcing his shoulder into the sides of several spectators, but couldn’t seem to make any headway. A handful of people jumped out of the way suddenly, pushed aside by well-muscled arms. Dorian looked up to see the Lavellan warrior, her expression impassive even as spectators stared in shock at her.

“Are you coming, shem?”

There wasn’t anything unpleasant in her tone, but there was certainly something imposing about her. Perhaps in her strapping stature and the easy sense of confidence in her actions. He nodded silently and allowed her to lead him closer to the front. As he reached a tolerable vantage point, he caught sight of Elian. Though Elian smiled at his approach, there was something stoney in the set of his shoulders. The man reached out as they neared, dragging Dorian up onto the errant bit of scaffolding Elian was using as a perch.

“You seemed to be having some trouble seeing,” he teased. “I thought I’d ask Rosal to help you.”

“Thank you.” He didn’t have the energy to come up with a witty rejoinder, so he turned his attention to Alexius and Tyla instead. Much to Dorian’s chagrin, Alexius’ face was turned towards the Inquisitor, but he could see the defeating slump in the man’s shoulders. He wished Felix had stayed to see his father’s judgment. Perhaps then Dorian wouldn’t feel so helpless.

 Josephine continued, glancing down at her notes, “Tevinter has disowned and stripped him of his rank. You may judge the former magister as you see fit.”

“Surprising to see Tevinter turn on their own.” The words were quiet, but still as sharp and stinging. “Although I suppose even tyrants must have some modicum of honor.”

Alexius strained forward in his bonds, “I couldn’t save my son. Do you think my fate matters to me?”

Dorian swallowed a shout, choking on a ten year argument. Why couldn’t Alexius just see that Felix’s illness wasn’t his fault. That his wife hadn’t been his fault. He wanted to shout over the hateful jeers of the crowd. He wanted to fill the room with static, to gain their silence, to dispel their hateful ideals of his homeland and the people who came from there. But he held his tongue. For what would his protests do against their bigotry? One Tevinter mage would never change their minds. Never change Alexius’, either.

“Will you offer nothing more in your defense?” Josephine asked, almost sounding sad.

His ex-mentor’s voice was more biting than he had expected, “You’ve won nothing. The people you saved, the acclaim you’ve gathered - you’ll lose it all in the storm to come. Render your judgement, Inquisitor.”

Tyla leaned forward on her throne. Her eyes were obscured by a curtain of hair falling into her face. Her lips remained pressed into a neutral expression, but her fingers tightened on the arms of her throne in anger. The din within the hall grew to a cacophony, shouts of abuse and calls for justice and suggestions for punishments. So many called for death. And then he heard the one that caused his blood to run cold, coming from a woman in a breastplate emblazoned with a fiery sword.

Tranquility.

He had heard the rumors of what southerners did to their mages they deemed too powerful. He had even met a few of the Tranquil in Redcliffe. He remembered the feeling of unease they gave him; how they felt wrong with the world. If that was to be the sentence passed down upon his mentor, he didn't know if he could face the man again. How could he look into the empty eyes of what was once the man who practically raised him and find nothing? Inquisition be damned. If it came to that, he’d never speak to Tyla again.

Next to him, Rosal voiced his concern aloud, leaning in to speak softly to Elian, “Do you think she would make him Tranquil? Seems to be the popular opinion.”

Elian's eyes were glued to Tyla and the procession, but he shook his head, “She's vindictive and petty, but not cruel.”

Dorian almost wanted to argue that point. He had seen how the Inquisitor had dispatched the red templars at Haven, he wouldn't have called her actions merciful.

“How can you be certain?” he asked, his words barely more than a whisper.

Rosal gave him a stern look, “I trust Elian’s judgment. He knows Tyla best. They were lethal’lis.”

Elian shot her a sharp word in Elvhen, causing Dorian's curiosity to flare, but his attention was drawn away as Tyla spoke.

“Gereon Alexius, the crimes leveled against you are far from what you have done,” she announced. “You bear blood immeasurable on your hands. There is no sentence I could pass that would rectify your transgressions, past or future.”

“Future?” Alexius struggled against his guards all the harder. “The spell! It worked? Did I save him?”

Tyla made a quick motion with her hand and the guards forced Alexius to his knees. Dorian bit back a gasp, eyes fixed on the guards as he prayed to the Maker that Alexius’ punishment wouldn't be too harsh.

“Your son,” Tyla continued as though he hadn't interrupted her, “was noble enough to send reparations to both Redcliffe and ourselves, to better serve the mages where you failed. I was shocked to learn he did not ask that I spare you of all repercussion.”

That didn't particularly surprise him. Felix had been remorseful for the damage caused and was never one to shy away from responsibility.

Still Tyla went on, “It took me a long time to decide what to do with you. You created a magic that should never have existed, and you used it to bring harm to those around you.

“You will be questioned. Leliana will question you on anything useful, as she sees fit.” Tyla sat upright once more, reigning in the anger that had begun to show through. “And when she feels you have told her all that she needs, you will be turned over to Fiona. You will serve the mages of Redcliffe, as you promised you would, until they have no further need of you. Any knowledge, favor, and coin you still lay claim to is to be considered repayment.” She stood up now, her head held high as she peered down at him with cold ire in her eyes. “When I am satisfied you have given all you can, Skyhold has exceptionally secure cells where you may spend the rest of your days.”

    Dorian let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. It was more than he could have hoped for, in all honesty. Leliana would certainly not be kind to Alexius, particularly with his stubborn streak of pride, but he would be neither dead nor tranquil.

    “Seems you were right,” he said to Elian. “Serving the mages-” he inhaled deeply, relieved, “there’s some justice in that, after what he did to them. Maybe one day he’ll realize it.”

It seemed unlikely, even as he said it. Alexius had always been a little too proud for his own good. Dorian sighed, resigned. “Seems a waste to watch him rot in a cell afterward. He was a good man, once. A good scholar…”

    Rosal shook her head, “Servitude is a kinder sentence than I would have given him.”

    “She’s taken everything he cares about,” Elian replied. “His name; his magic; his research, pride, legacy. She’s stripped him of everything he was. A headsman would have been kinder.” The severity in the man’s tone caught Dorian off guard. He had yet to hear anything less than joviality from Elian, and so the cold edge felt out of place. Unfamiliar. He turned to speak, but Elian was gone, only a glimpse of his auburn hair visible as he vanished among the sea of people.

 


	4. By Your Will, May All Be Done

Hiding in the corner of Skyhold was what had come to be known as the council room. While not used by Tyla and her advisors, it was often used for briefing of troops. It was a fairly small room for its purpose. Too many tables were crammed into the area. It made for a lot of awkward maneuvering and half-hearted apologies. Blackwall had already earned a half-veiled jab from Madame de Fer for trodding on her coattails. Cassandra was rolling her eyes at something Varric was saying to Solas.

Dorian sat on the far end of the room, keeping his distance from the rest of the group. He knew they wouldn’t want to sit too close to him. It was the slightest bit fair, he supposed. Even if it rankled him. It was unwise to needlessly step on their toes about it. Their common enemies were certainly not helping his case. The person sitting closest to him was the Tal-Vashoth. The Iron Bull sat in a relaxed slump in his chair, laughing raucously at something said by the elven woman with a rat's nest for hair.

“It seems everyone else has little room at their table,” a voice beside Dorian said. Dorian stifled a jump. He hadn't heard anyone approach his table. Perhaps he had been too caught up in his own thoughts. He turned to look up.

Elian stood beside him, long fingers curled around the back of a chair. The elf was no longer garbed in the ratty clothes they had found him in only a few days ago. Instead, he wore a loose-fitting black tunic, dark breeches, heavy-heeled boots, and an ankle-length leather coat with what looked like dark blue wool lining the inside. His hair was still plaited; not woven so tight against his scalp, but instead brought back into a spiral reminiscent of embrium that ended in a cascade across his shoulders. Dorian wondered how long it took to wrangle such long hair into so elegant a presentation. He looked good. Less like a feral highwayman and more like a foreign dignitary.

“You don't mind, do you?” Elian raised a quizzical eyebrow. “It’s no trouble to tell me ‘no’.”

Dorian started a bit, suddenly wondering just how long he’d been staring. He cleared his throat, trying to slide into a more relaxed posture. “Sorry. Seems I was a bit lost in thought.” That wasn’t a lie. Certainly not the best Dorian had ever come up with. He motioned lazily to the table, “By all means.”

Elian brushed back his coat as he sat down. Dorian caught a flash of metal and managed to catch a glimpse of the daggers at Elian’s belt. He remembered the cold press of them against his throat just seeing them. They looked much cleaner. There was an ornate insignia of what looked like twisting branches now visible on the blade just above the hilt. The silvery metal shined like a mirror. He wondered at what ore had such a sheen. Elian seemed to have taken them to a whetstone recently. It must have taken hours to get them into this state.

The door at the top of the stairs burst open. Dorian tore his eyes away from Elian and towards the man stumbling into the room. It was the new quartermaster. What had his name been? Morris? He shuffled an armful of papers about, his eyes wide as they roamed over the room. His clothes were fine; a lovely arrangement of expensive silks and pristine embroidery. He stood with all of the presence of a sheet hung up to dry.

Dorian wondered what had happened to Threnn, the previous quartermaster. He knew she had survived the attack on Haven. She was certainly better equipped to the job than this paper puppet. She had run the Inquisition like a navy ship, handing out assignments with such firm-handed authority. There had been no disrespect or prejudice spread under her watchful eye. She’d made him feel welcome. A basic understanding of group chemistry had also seemed to come naturally to her. She had been quick to pick up on how the people under her worked together and where they would be most productively placed. This Morris gentleman surely didn’t have near the same bearing.

A few people went quiet as Ser Morris managed to fumble his way to the desk at the front of the room. He dropped the scrolls and parchment down on the table too haphazardly and what appeared to be a map rolled onto the floor. Morris snatched it from the ground, an embarrassed flush visible all the way up to his ears as he sat down. He rearranged his papers once more, drawing his shoulders upward and back. It did little to make him look more assured. He cleared his throat. A couple of errant conversations still continued. Morris cleared his throat again, louder this time. Silence finally fell.

“Forgive me,” Morris began. “The Lady Inquisitor has reviewed the many requests placed by personages both within the Inquisition and without.” Morris gave the room another glance. He shifted from foot to foot and turned his eyes quickly back to his papers. “Given the influx of requests for aid across Thedas, the Inquisitor has decided to assign groups to specific goals. In this way, the Inquisition can continue its presence as an organization intended for the protection of the people of Thedas and their needs.”

Elian scoffed, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms across his chest. His lips tugged into a crooked half-smirk. He looked almost incredulous.

Dorian looked over and murmured, “What was that?”

Elian shook his head as if in answer. He inclined his head towards Morris, his green eyes never leaving Morris. Dorian tuned back to the man. “-joined by Warden Blackwall, Mistress Sera, and Master Cole. You are to travel to the Storm Coast to search for signs of Grey Warden movements.

Thank the Maker. Dorian hated the Storm Coast with its incessant rain. He had spent a small amount of time in the Storm Coast when he'd first arrived in Ferelden. He didn't fancy tromping through its muddy mountains any more than he already had.

“Madame de Fer, Lady Pentaghast, Master Tethras, and Master Solas are to search for the missing soldiers in the Fallow Mire.”

Another blessing. The Fallow Mire was aptly named, but it was even more foul than the Storm Coast. Dorian had traveled there with the Inquisitor during her first slog through the marsh. Where the Storm Coast had been at least a bit warm, the Fallow Mire was cold, damp, muddy, and filled with plagues of reanimated corpses and parasitic insects. The sheer amount of times Dorian had needed to replace his boots because the swampwater had worn holes into them was ludicrous.

It didn’t help that the party was a disaster waiting to be had. Madame de Fer was a social pariah among the Inner Circle. She had very specific opinions on a great many things, and she was very inclined to share those opinions publicly. Usually with exactly the wrong person. It was as though her position as Enchanter to the Orlesian Court made her forget her diplomacy around the Inquisition. Unless, of course, she thought it more beneficial to her cause to be tactful about her views.

Unfortunately, the Inner Circle held no particularly useful connections to Madame de Fer to spare them her opinions. Her fanaticisms about the Circle had alienated Solas and himself; her hunger for political power above all had turned Cole and Blackwall from her; Cassandra and Sera had both been disdainful of her pleasure in the Orlesian Game; the only people who seemed to be able to work with her semi-peacefully were Varric and The Iron Bull.

“Lord Pavus.” Morris’ voice wasn’t tense, but it was exasperated. There was a tremor in his voice when he said Dorian’s name. Dorian looked up, brushing away his thoughts as he met Morris’ eyes. The quartermaster’s jaw unclenched and he gave a relieved exhale. “The Inquisitor has approved your request to investigate the Venatori movement in the Hinterlands. The Iron Bull and his company are to join you on your endeavors.”

 _Kaffas._  He was relieved that Tyla had approved his request, certainly, but he hadn't planned on the Tal-Vashoth coming along. Of course Tyla would have put the two of them together. The man was raucous, brash, and uncultured. He had no sense of propriety and Dorian doubted his merry band of misfits - that so-called mercenary company - were likely to be better. He and Bull were going to drive each other mad. That, or murder one another.

Morris began to roll up his papers, his shoulders relaxing. Next to Dorian, Elian sat up, his brows furrowed in confusion, “Pardon! I missed what party I am meant to join.”

Morris looked up, his eyes scanning Elian. There was the slightest twitch at the corner of the man's mouth. He almost seemed offended. Likely due to Elian’s misstep in addressing Morris. Dorian didn't know the man personally, but he seemed to be a minor lord. Dorian hoped the disdain wasn't because Morris was prejudiced. If he was, he was going to have a short-lived career in Tyla’s Inquisition.

“You didn’t mishear, Master Elian. The Lady Inquisitor has not assigned you out of Skyhold.”

That was odd. It seemed strange for Morris to suddenly drop his propriety when addressing Elian. Why not refer to him as ‘Master Lavellan’, as most did? Regardless of Morris’ reason, it seemed to get a rise out of Elian. The elf’s jaw visibly tightened and his hand clenched the table until his knuckles turned white. There was something sharp in his green eyes. Yet, a second later, the tension was gone.

“A task within Skyhold, then?” Elian pressed.

Morris unrolled his papers, glancing over them one last time, “It would seem not.”

Elian sat up straighter, his voice careful and low, “An oversight, then. I will speak with her.” Though possible, Dorian doubted it was an oversight. Tyla was meticulous in all of her work.

Morris fiddled with his papers, his fingers shaking so hard he dropped them across the floor. He knelt, quickly plucking them off the polished stone. “The Inquisitor is currently in a meeting with her advisors,” he stammered out as he stood up. His fingers clenched around the parchment, crumpling the documents and turning his knuckles white. “I do not think it, ah, prudent. To disturb her.”

Dorian could feel the irritation rolling off Elian. The elf was leveling a steel-eyed expression at Ser Morris. He was still as stone, his jaw just slightly clenched, except for the occasional twitch in his fingers. Morris swallowed hard.

“If you'd like,” Dorian said, hoping to assuage the tension. “I see no reason why you couldn't join Iron Bull and I.”

“ _The_  Iron Bull,” the Tal-Vashoth corrected. “The article is important.” He turned his eyes away from Dorian and towards Elian. He gave a curt nod. “If you’re interested, you’re more than welcome. I've never been one to turn down an extra pair of hands.”

Dorian turned to Elian and gave a charming smile, “Ever been to the Hinterlands?”

Elian frowned, “Where?”

“A vast expanse of land in central Ferelden,” The Iron Bull explained. He pulled his chair over to their table with a horrible scraping sound and settled in. This close, he was even broader than Dorian had realized.

Elian shook his head, sinking into a relaxed posture in his chair, “Never been to Ferelden. Never been further east than Skyhold.”

That was interesting. It made sense; he wondered if the Dalish clans had specific routes they stuck to. It seemed they didn’t roam much further than a couple hundred leagues. He had always just assumed the Dalish sort of went everywhere.

“What will we be doing in these Hinterlands?” Elian leaned forward slightly, crossing his forearms on the table. “Morris said something about Venatori? The purists?”

Bull sat back a bit, his eyes slightly narrowed, “You're familiar with the term.”

“Everyone knows Corypheus has the Venatori.” Dorian waved his hand dismissively, “Of course he knows of the wicked blood mages working with their so-called ‘Elder One’.”

The Iron Bull looked like he was going to speak, but Elian interrupted before he could do more than open his mouth. “Sounds like a good time. When do we leave?” As he spoke, Bull settled into his chair a bit more. The wood gave a low groan.

Dorian looked to Bull, “When can your Chargers be ready?”

The Iron Bull smiled, spreading his hands wide in casually dismissive gesture, “My boys will be ready before you even finish packing all of your hair creams, Vint.”

Dorian bit back a more indignant response and instead said, “I'll be ready shortly.” He looked to Elian. “And yourself?”

Elian smirked, his coat sweeping about him as he stood up, “I have everything I need. Shall I wait for you on the bridge?”

Dorian looked him up and down. He carried no pack. His coat, though it did make him look sturdier than the average elf, didn't look like it held anything more than the fur lining. It seemed a poor idea for the elf to bring nothing save the clothes on his back and the daggers he always seemed to have.

“Do you not need a bed roll?” he asked.

Elian scoffed, “For what reason? The ground has never been uncomfortable.”

Dorian had a couple arguments otherwise. Still, he didn't particularly have the energy to hear the elf’s argument for sleeping on the ground. He resisted the impulse to rub his temples. “Rations, perhaps?”

Elian offered a pensive frown. “The Hinterlands has animals, yes? Plants? Shouldn't be too hard to find food.”

Dorian nodded hesitantly and watched as the lithe man walked away. When he slipped through the door and outside, The Iron Bull leaned forward and elbowed him softly in the side. “Watch yourself.”

Dorian's eyes snapped up to Bull, “Pardon?”

The Iron Bull chuckled. He stood up, leaning over the table so that he could still be heard as he lowered his voice, “I'm giving you the same advice I gave Boss when we met you. The pretty ones are always the worst. So, again, watch yourself.” The Iron Bull gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder, and Dorian almost keeled into the table from the force of the gesture. The Tal-Vashoth laughed as Dorian braced himself against the table. Bull’s chair whined as he scraped it across the floor to stand up. He strode out, shoulders slightly shaking from his chuckling.

Dorian found himself sitting in a bemused silence. He hadn’t thought he was being obvious with his interest in the elven man. In fact, he’d been under the assumption that he was being rather subtle. Less than he normally would, since the man seemed to be just as interested. Still within the rules of propriety, though. Besides, it wasn't as though he was flirting with just Elian.

He gave an annoyed huff, pushing in The Iron Bull’s chair as he walked around the table and towards the door. There were a few things which he needed to do before he could meet Bull and Elian at the bridge. He wandered out of the building, The Iron Bull’s words still echoing in his mind.


	5. Over the Roar of the Bonfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. It's weirdly difficult to pry answers from a notorious slitherer-outer.

Dorian turned over on his bedroll for the eleventh time. It was the third day of riding and Dorian had never traveled by horseback so long in his life. It certainly wasn’t the longest trip he had ever been on, but he had soon found out it was a much harder ride from atop a horse than in a carriage. There soon wasn’t a muscle in his body that didn’t ache. The Iron Bull had laughed about it after the first day of riding and it had become clear that he was the only one unused to such travel. Himself and of course Elian, who had been less vocal about his discomfort, but no less visibly sore.

Elian had protested about riding the first day of the trip, reminding everyone he had never ridden horses. The Iron Bull had had none of it. The ultimatum offered had been that Elian could either ride with someone or not come along after all. Elian had quickly chosen to ride with Dalish, an elven mage in Bull’s Chargers, and said little about it the rest of the trip thus far.

Twitching restlessly within his bedroll, Dorian rubbed his eyes with the flat of his palms and groaned. He was exhausted. Every part of him simply wanted to fall asleep, and yet the worry prickling in his stomach and chest refused to let him close his eyes for more than a handful of seconds. The journey down to the Hinterlands would take six days in total. Dorian’s intel on the Venatori had been a couple days old when he had first received it. It had taken more time for the Inquisitor to get back to him on what she was to do with his information. By the time they got to the Hinterlands, would they be too late? Would the Venatori have moved on? Dorian didn’t want to think about what would happen if they escaped to the rest of Thedas, much less what would happen if Tyla found out they had failed.

Trying to distract himself, he forced his attention to what was physically around him. The campfire crackled soothingly beyond the thick fabric of his tent. It wasn’t the low crackle of smoldering ash, but the sharp  _ snap _ of fresh logs catching flame. Someone was tending to it still. Despite how close his tent was to the bonfire the Chargers had built, the bitter cold of Ferelden still seeped its way into Dorian’s bones. He wondered idly if he’d ever feel warm again. Cursing himself for enabling his insomnia, he slipped out of the bedroll and got to his feet.

He tried to stretch a bit to appease his angry muscles. It did little good. Ignoring the aches, he leaned down to rummage through his pack. He pushed aside wrapped rations, quills, inkwells, scribbled notes, and rolled maps of the area to pull out a thick tome. Its old worn leather was soft against his fingers. He turned it over in his hands, letting the weight of it comfort him. He had been elated when he’d found it hiding among the other books of Skyhold’s library. Vetrani was a visionary of magical theory, difficult to find in Tevinter due to his radical ideals on the Fade, and it had been a damned miracle to find one of his books so deep in the south.

He stepped out into the night. The scent of woodsmoke was thick in the air and Dorian hurried to get closer to the warmth. The trees around Ferelden weren’t found in Tevinter and, when burned, Dorian found the campfires smelled different. Much more floral. Less of a robust spiced edge of what he remembered of his home. The flames of it twisted up in shades of orange and gold. As he approached, he noticed a familiar figure sitting in the grass.

It shouldn’t have surprised him to find Elian still awake. He sat cross-legged, a book balanced on one knee. He was so close to the fire, Dorian wondered that a stray ember didn’t catch the pages alight. There was a quill in his right hand, scratching against the parchment in short, curving lines, and a long-stemmed pipe in the other. Warm light and deep shadow played across his face in turns and made the thorn tattoos look as though they moved. Elian brought the pipe to his lips, absentmindedly sucking on the pipe, as he dipped his quill into an inkwell at his feet. Elian’s hand stilled and he turned to look up at Dorian. Instead of the usual green, his eyes flashed bright with reflected light. 

“ _ Vishante kaffas! _ ” he hissed. He had forgotten elves’ eyes reflected light in the dark.

Elian gave a laugh, the sound deep in his chest and the type of laugh that sounded as though it reverberated through his very bones. His eyes closed, his head tilted down as if to hide his smile.Dorian had never heard him laugh that way before.  Almost as though it was less controlled. More honest. The smile lingered on Elian’s face as he opened his eyes. The glowing in the depths of his pupils wasn’t any less disconcerting, but the good mood put Dorian more at ease. “You seem to be making a habit of this,” Elian noted.

“I assure you, I haven't the slightest idea of what you mean,” Dorian said, offering the man a wink. He stepped closer, reaching out with his free hand so that it hovered over the fire. “I came here to drive the cold from my bones.”

Elian blinked slowly at him, and the reflective glow of his eyes lent a sort of paralyzing effect. Dorian shifted where he stood. “About your eyes…why do they do that? I’ve never had the opportunity to ask.”

Elian shrugged, “Just something elf eyes do in the dark. The Keepers say it’s because Mythal took a piece of the sun from her lover to give to us, so that our eyes could cut through any darkness.” He cocked his head at an angle, eyes distant as he thought, and then he shook his head. He motioned to the grass next to him. “You can sit down.”

It didn't take long for Dorian to mull it over. As he approached, he caught a breath of the familiar smell. It was sharply sweet and stung his nose with an iciness. He remembered the first time he'd come across that scent: memories of sneaking out of the Circle dormitories at night to meet his friends and impulsive choices stoked by inebriation. “And here I thought smoking lyrium was a Tevinter pastime.”

Elian shrugged, “Some trees grow in many sands.”

Dorian didn't know what to make of that. Elian didn't offer any explanation, perhaps not noticing the baffled expression Dorian was offering him. Instead, he brought the mouthpiece of the pipe to his lips and took a long drag. It was a beautifully carved pipe, made from a dark wood with whorls carved around the bowl. Dorian watched the smoke drift from Elian’s lips. “Did you know that mixing it with embrium makes it burn longer?” Elian asked. 

“No, I didn’t,” Dorian smiled at that, intrigued and amused by the whole situation. It was a clever idea, pairing lyrium with a slow-burning plant. Smarter than what he had done when he was younger. “I used to cut it with canavaris root.”

Elian raised an eyebrow, a dubious frown on his face, “I don't think I'd ever want to escape  _ that  _ much. Doesn't that make you-” he paused, his brow furrowing in thought. He mumbled something in Elvhen before saying, “Like a rock?”

“It can cause paralysis in some.” Dorian remembered the times he had smoked too much. He had lain across the heavy rugs of the brothel’s more expensive room, the air filled with blue-tinged smoke, as he floated in a numb euphoria.  And Felix, having hunted him down, to drag him back home as the sun came back up. “Everything in moderation.”

Dorian dug around in his pockets, searching for some spare coin he knew he had rattling about. Before he could find any, Elian leaned over to offer the long stem of his pipe. “I'll repay you,” Dorian said as he took it from the elf.

Elian shrugged. “This time is fine. Next time. Smoking lyrium isn't easy to find.”

Dorian chuckled at that and muttered, “I suppose it wouldn’t be.” He snapped his fingers, reaching to extend his will over a small piece of the Fade, and a tiny flame burst to life at the tip of his fingers. Elian shook his head, “It doesn't need lighting yet.”

Dorian waved the flame away. He held the pipe gently, admiring the craftsmanship. The grain of the wood was visible in it, adding to the depth of the ivy vines across the bowl. It felt as though it had been oiled recently. 

“I didn't take you to be a fire mage,” Elian said.

“That was about the extent of my mastery of pyromancy,” Dorian confided. He had forgotten how cold lyrium tasted, making his mouth tingle despite the heat of the fire. How it made him too aware of every nerve in his body. “Although sometimes I feel it comes more naturally to me. I'm an electromancer by study.”

Elian hummed in a distracted sort of way, but still seemed to be listening. Dorian watched him. He wasn't writing, the strokes of his quill too long to be any written language. Then again, Dorian didn't have a clue what Elvhen script looked like. He sat up a bit, reaching his arms up as though he was stretching, and attempted to catch a glimpse of what Elian was doing. 

It was a drawing. A collection of portraits, drawn from the shoulders up. The Iron Bull featured in the center. He was the largest of the portraits and Elian had used that to capture a magnitude of detail. Around him were the faces of the Chargers. Dorian could just make out the rough shapes sketched lightly under the darker-lined details. Beneath the bust of each person, there was a long, twisting script that seemed to be connected by a horizontal line over the shapes. It reminded Dorian of ivy.

Elian's quill abruptly stopped moving. Dorian looked up, meeting Elian's shining green eyes. They really were such a vivid hue. His low voice broke through Dorian's thoughts. “You're less subtle when you're high.”

Dorian felt his face heat up. He sat up and cleared his throat. He drew his shoulders back, head held high, and met Elian's eyes. He tried to come up with a good excuse but, before he could, the elf plucked the pipe from his hand. Elian took a long hit, smiling as the smoke swirled in the cold night air. “Maybe you can pay me for this time. If you're not going to pass it back.”

Ah. Dorian immediately relaxed, feeling a little bit sheepish about having been wrong. “Sorry,” he said. “I'll try to remember not to be selfish.”

The smile faded a bit from Elian's eyes, his mouth relaxing into a more neutral expression. His eyes turned to the fire as he worried at the pipes mouthpiece. 

“You could have asked.” Elian said finally, handing the pipe to Dorian. “To see what I was doing, I mean.”

“Would you have answered?” Dorian asked. “You seem to be very skilled at dodging questions.”

Elian winced, “Sorry. Water can't be moved, after all.”

Dorian blinked at that, trying to decipher what the elf meant. He decided he had no idea. “What?”

“Water can't be moved,” he repeated.

Dorian scoffed, “It can though. You don't even have to be a mage to move water.”

Elian pointed the quill at him imperiously, “Not water, maybe. A well? No.” He broke of into Elvhen, though it sounded more directed at himself than Dorian. He looked pensive for a moment before saying, “The water’s source. What is the word for it?”

“A lake?”

“No,” Elian sighed. “ _ Fons _ .”

Dorian was taken aback. He had heard Elian speak Tevene once before, but it was a greeting. Simple to learn, easy to remember. Anyone could learn how to say hello in another language. But the man had a flawless Tevene accent when he spoke it, and an apparently extensive vocabulary. He seemed so reluctant to use it. The word was spat out, Elian's mouth twisted in a scowl, as though he hated the sound of it. “A spring,” Dorian said tentatively. “The word in Ferel is ‘a spring’.”

Elian rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between two delicate fingers, “This language is too complicated. It uses too many words to say nothing. So many words for water, too many differences between them, and still I make no sense.” He went to take a hit, but the lyrium had finally gone out. Another slew of Elvhen, but Dorian recognized it as cursing. Dorian leaned closer, summoned the small flame to his hand with a snap of his fingers. Elian held out the pipe, eyes half-lidded as he let Dorian relight the bowl.

“That's better,” Elian said as he shifted to a more comfortable position. He forced his mouth into a smile, but it looked too tight to be natural. “This is much easier than how I planned. You're invaluable, Dorian.”

Dorian laughed. “Ah, yes. You've caught why I'm truly here. To help the Inquisitor and her followers get high.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the snap of burning wood and the various noises of nocturnal insects. Dorian wasn't ready to let the conversation fall just yet.“How long have you been speaking Ferel?” Dorian asked, silently motioning to the pipe. Elian passed it over.

“Four years?” Elian mused. “Five, perhaps? Time passes strangely when you roam.”

“Four years?” Dorian leaned forward, coughing as his throat burned. When he managed to stop, he handed off the pipe and wiped his watering eyes. Ferel was such a complicated language. Not quite as difficult as Orleans, but vastly different from a Tevinter perspective. Dorian wondered how much Tevene and Elvhen differed. “Fuck, you speak it better than I did at four years. Couldn't remember all of the verbs for the life of me. And pronunciation?” Dorian scoffed. “People can understand what you're saying. I had to repeat myself at least twice.”

Elian's eye widened a bit, his lips parting as if to say something. He apparently thought better of it, leaning back into himself a touch, and smiled. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Is it a common phrase where you're from?” Dorian asked.

Elian nodded. Dorian bit back a snarky remark, smiling as he nudged the man with his shoulder. “How was it used there?”

Absently taking back the pipe, Elian pursed his lips, his brow furrowing. He was silent for a little bit before saying, “Not everything can be changed? No, that's not right. Some things…are as they are. We can learn to work around them, but you cannot make them what you want them to be.” Elian grimaced. “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Dorian assured him. “And I agree with you: Ferel is a ridiculous language with many arbitrary rules and useless words.” He watched Elian put his notebook down, resting the quill carefully so as to not drip ink  onto the page. He watched the man closely, wondering if he could actually get an answer from Elian now. “How fluent are you in Tevene?”

Elian's expression turned dark. His lips twitched downward as though he was trying to hold back a snarl. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't look at Dorian. He turned to look at the fire blazing beside them. Dorian didn't think he was actually seeing the flames.

“More fluent than I'd like.” Elian said curtly. Dorian suppressed a shiver, though he wasn't cold anymore. Then Elian seemed to refocus his gaze and he turned to look at Dorian. “You have so many questions about the languages I speak.”

“It's an interesting topic,” Dorian conceded. “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t learn foreign languages from a tutor. It’s impressive.”

“It was necessary to survive,” Elian pointed out before he tilted his face downward, breaking eye contact. Was that a blush across his cheeks or just a trick of light and shadows? “But thank you.”

Something about that peaked Dorian's curiosity and he couldn't help but press forward. “How many do you know?”

Elian took pause, tapping his index finger across his knuckles, and answered, “Four that I can speak well, if you count Ferel. Five, if you count what little Nevarran I know.”

“Neverran?” 

Elian's lips tugged into an easy smile, his eyes a little distant, “I was born in Nevarra. It seemed wise to learn.”

Dorian's jaw almost dropped open. He wouldn't have guessed Elian and Cassandra were countrymen. Elian certainly didn't carry much in the way of the Nevarran cadence. Dorian supposed that was due to the Dalish and their lilting way of speaking. And then there was the heavy Tevene edge to his accent. “Nevarra,” he murmured. “I take it you lived in the south.”

Elian shook his head, “My birth clan lives in the north. In  _ Da’gen Sulenal _ . I think you called it  _ Maferanus _ in Tevinter.”

“Horse shit,” Dorian barked. “ _ Maferanus _ is barren. Nothing but dead sand. No one is capable of living there.”

“Maybe for you humans,” Elian laughed, his eyes glowing brighter as he looked down to the fire. “My people have always been more resilient.”

Dorian scoffed at that, more out of amusement than disbelief. There was such a profound joy in Elian’s smile, tinged with the hint of nostalgia. Dorian wondered if he could ask Elian about his Nevarran clan. What stories could be told. How the elf’s eyes might light up with passion like they were then. But there was another question that had caught his curiosity, one that had formed as more pieces had fallen into place. “Is that why Tyla seems to hate you? Because you aren't a Lavellan?”

Elian's eyes widened, his lips tugging down in a scowl. “I earned the right to be called a Lavellan. By our laws, she and I are kin.”

Dorian started. Had he said that out loud?  _ Kaffas.  _ And he had been doing so well with getting Elian to warm up to him. “I didn't intend to offend you. I simply-” Dorian took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “When we first heard news of Lavellan survivors, Tyla was more passionate than she had been since before Haven. I thought maybe finding her clansmen would be good for her. But she looks at you and I get the impression she'd rather you be dead.”

Elian's shoulders pulled forward as he shifted, bending his long legs closer to his chest. He looked small like this; sort of curled in on himself and eyes distant. Without looking over, he passed Dorian the pipe and said, “That's not why.” His jaw worked a bit as though he was chewing on the words as he searched for something to say. An answer that wasn't an answer, no doubt. Dorian felt perturbed, but didn't want to push the man too far. “You don't have to tell me,” Dorian told him. “Forget I said anything.”

Elian shook his head, eyes closed, and ran his hand through his hair. Dorian's eyes followed the movement. His burgundy hair was kept off the ground only because of the many loose braids it was tied into. It seemed to be a different type of plating everytime Dorian saw it. Such long hair on men wasn't in fashion in Tevinter and he couldn't help but wonder how long it took to style and who had taught Elian how.

“No,” Elian said with a groan. “Rosal says I should talk to people more. And it's better to hear it from me.” He turned his eyes to the sky, as though he could find the words among the constellations. “When I found Clan Lavellan, I was a  _ banalvaren _ . It, eh, it means something like ‘one who is shadow’. Or is it ‘nothing’?” He paused, mulling it over, before he continued. “We use it for those without a clan.  _ Banalvaren _ are considered…bad luck. They are given kindness, but cannot stay with the clan for more than a few days.”

Dorian put the pipe down, watching as Elian's eyes grew a little more distant. He had looked back down towards the fire, eyes half-lidded, and his shoulders were slumped. He wondered how long the man had been alone, wandering from place to place. The reason why began to pry its way from the back of Dorian's mind, but he shoved it back down. There was still a chance he was wrong.

“It is only by Tyla’s kindness that I was allowed to stay,” Elian continued. “She vouched for me to Keeper Istimaethoriel - trusted me when no one else would. I owe her so much for it.”

“So what happened?” Dorian asked, leaning closer to the man.

“I killed her husband.”

Dorian’s train of thought came to an abrupt stop. One sentence, four words, and everything Dorian had thought he’d pieced together shattered rather magnificently. His mouth opened and shut as he tried and failed to think of something to say in response. Nothing truly got across what all he was thinking and feeling now. He had an answer, one out of the many he had been trying to pry out of Elian, and didn’t know what to do with it now that he had it.

Neither of them said anything for a time. They sat in the stillness, surrounded by the sound of insects and burning wood and night air that only highlighted the lack of conversation. When Dorian finally looked back at Elian’s face, he was surprised to find no grief in his features. He simply looked tired. There was an empty look to his eyes and Dorian shuddered as he recognized what was going on in the man’s head.   

As though Elian had sensed the heavy silence that had fallen over Dorian, he shifted in his spot. He seemed to force away his tension, stretching himself out a bit, and Dorian watched regretfully as he schooled his expression back into one of repose. It was something that Dorian had done many times himself - a habit created from being a part of  Tevinter’s high society and surrounded by family like his. He wondered how Elian had picked up such a precaution.

Elian slowly held out his hand and Dorian jumped a bit at the sudden movement. He realized that Elian was waiting for him to pass the pipe back. He had forgotten he was still holding it. As he handed it back, Elian looked down into the bowl and laughed. “Well, you weren’t supposed to let it go to waste,” he said.

“You don’t have to do that.” The words came flying from Dorian’s mouth before he could stop them. He shouldn't have done that.

Elian frowned, his brows furrowed, “Do what?” There was the slightest hint of alarm in his expression.

“You don’t have to-” Dorian faltered. Was this a line he shouldn’t cross yet? It certainly was a more intimate topic to broach, particularly after their conversation had reached such an unsettling conclusion. Still, it seemed too late to not push forward. “You don’t have to hide behind so many walls. I know how that feels -- it’s not necessary with me.”

Elian raised a dubious eyebrow before saying, “I hardly know you, Dorian.”

That was fair, but something about it stung. “Ah, yes. You hardly know me, but enough to take amusement in mentioning how I don’t recognize you.”

Elian sighed slowly as he tapped his pipe against his hand, knocking out what little charred lyrium was left into the fire. The flames sparked blue for a split second before returning to their warm gold. He looked pensive as he watched the flames.

“Sorry,” Dorian said. “You have a right to your privacy. I...I can imagine this-” Dorian motioned about them vaguely, hoping he was getting across what he wanted. “Is difficult for you.”

Elian’s eyes snapped to him, wide with unadulterated surprise. Then he smiled, his eyes trailing down to the ground as he reached up to his throat. Dorian caught the quickest glimpse of what Elian was fiddling with. It appeared to be a ring, too wide for the elf’s thin fingers and in what seemed to be the style of a house signet, hanging from a leather cord. “You remind me of someone I once knew.” Elian said. “You want to remember me so desperately. Why? Do you think you might have been cruel to me?”

Dorian’s stomach dropped. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. “I sincerely hope I haven’t.”

Silence fell between them again. Elian’s eyes trailed up to the stars and Dorian followed his gaze. They were much more visible so far from the cities, peppering the night sky with more constellations than Dorian remembered Tevinter ever having. Had he never paid enough attention to notice all the stars?

“How is your staff treating you?” Elian asked suddenly. “It’s Inquisition stock, yes?”

Dorian met his eyes, trying to puzzle out the change of subject. “It is,” he said. “It’s not the best staff I’ve used, but it’s...tenable. I can hardly expect to get a custom staff from Harritt, what with the Inquisition’s funds stretched thin as it is.”

Elian nodded. “Most southerners don’t seem to know good staves from sticks. How’s the balance?”

“Poor,” Dorian said with a scowl. He stopped short, a quiet realization dawning on him. “You’re not a mage. What in the Maker’s name would you know of staves?”

Elian chuckled, scooping up his journal and quill from the dirt, and got to his feet. “You’re a clever man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Elian turned and walked away, heading towards the tent The Iron Bull had eventually talked him into bringing. Dorian watched, mouth slightly agape, as the elf vanished behind the leather flap, his laugh still lingering in the air.


End file.
